The Way You Make Me Feel
by Michael Jackson Fanfiction
Summary: This is a Michael Jackson fanfic. The story of Tatiana Thumbzten the girl in the The Way You Make Me Feel from her point of view.
1. Take My Name And Just Let Me Be

I kick off my heels and stretch out on the ratty futon. The apartment smells musty and lonely, and my eyes are tired.

My feet hurt from walking around in heels for so long. Yeah, they're killer sexy, and the pain is worth it, but seems like I never get used to it. Seems like I never will.

And you know sometimes I feel like it was never worth it. If it was just a lie, just make-believe, what's the point in acting when you want the real thing?

But I stretch out my legs and close my eyes, and I can be there again. Strutting around like the world belongs to me. Cocky and beautiful. And in the memory I can be in the moment, and you know what? It's real to me.

I'm that pretty baby with the high heels on.

* * *

It's been a long day, just waiting for hours on end, and my legs are cramping. I'm audition #9904. It's almost one in the morning and maybe they're going to just kick me out, not even give me a chance.

I feel like I'm just going to be a petty model forever. Nothing special. When I was a little girl, going to ballet classes, I used to spin around, do pirouettes, and when my parents burst out clapping I felt so special, like I was the center of the world and everyone was applauding for me.

Not anymore. Now I'm not a little girl (though I still feel like it), and I'm in a huge waiting room with thousands of other girls wanting the same thing as me. And I don't particularly care about this one job. It's just that I'm constantly waiting, constantly wanting...

Performing for my parents and those of other ballet students isn't enough anymore. Nor is even going to Juilliard and having a whole auditorium clap for me. It's arbitrary. It's not because of me. No one's going to remember my name. And lately in this world, you have to keep doing bigger and better to be noticed. It's not so easy anymore. And I'm still a little girl trying to keep up.

I pull my knees up towards my chest and lean my chin on them, wrapping my arms around myself. The room is uncomfortably warm with all the bodies pressed around me. Other girls next to me are having in a rapid, lighthearted conversation, but I can't bring myself to get involved. I check the time again. One fifteen.

"And so, he's going to be there... I think!"

"Seriously? I thought it was just going to be like, a casting guy, or the producer?"

"Well I don't know, but I heard he was going to be there, someone told me."

"Oh my god, imagine if he picks me. I'd die. I'd just faint."

"He's not going to pick you. I mean, you have no experience."

"Neither do you!"

"Yeah, but it's worth a try, isn't it?"

I tune out the girls next to me. I do have some experience. But just in modeling, and ballet--neither of which have anything to do with performing in a music video. Like they said, it's worth a try... but I'm beginning to think it's not. My apartment is calling to me, as is my shower, nice and hot, and my bed...

"Oh my god! The door's open! Quick, can you see Michael Jackson?"

There's an instant surge of the crowd towards the door, and people press around me. The room is way too crowded. I cringe against the wall.

Someone knocks against me and pushes me down, and my heel jabs into my leg. I bite back a cry of pain, and struggle to get up again. Shouldn't have worn the heels. Who cares what the lyrics in the song say.

Shouldn't have even come. I'm probably not even going to be able to audition. This is cruel and unusual punishment. I'm going to have a bruise on my leg now.

There's a massive sigh of disappointment as the next audition is called--#9902--and the crowd settles back into the room. I assume that they didn't manage to get a peek at the elusive Michael Jackson--probably isn't even here.

If I were more awake, I'd probably be as excited as they are. He's probably the biggest star in the world, plus one of the hottest men. But I just can't seem to get my adrenaline up. Really, the idea of him is kind of withdrawn from me. I don't really think of him as real. Like he could actually be in that room behind that wall.

"Hey, you're Tatiana Thumbzten, right?" It's a short girl with spiky black hair. "The model? I'm a big fan!"

I'm tempted to say no, you mistook me for someone else. "Yeah," I sigh.

"Wow, you'll get the audition for sure! I'm sure they'll like you; you seem just like the girl Michael describes in the song. Your hair even matches his."

I force a laugh. "I wish. There's ten thousand girls here; I'm sure I'm not the best. But thanks, though."

She smiles shyly. "Could I get your autograph? My brother is like, in love with you."

"Sure." I sign the back of her notebook awkwardly, and almost miss my audition call.

"Number 9904!"

I jump up, startled. "Hey, that's me!" I turn to the girl. "Hey--sorry--got to go." I hand back the notebook and fix my dress hurriedly.

"You look fine, good luck!" she calls, but I'm already pushing my way through the crowd, through jabbering girls and the smell of thick perfume.

When I walk through the door it's refreshingly quiet, the air clear and the walls white. My heels click on the floor and I feel suddenly awake.

"Tatiana...Thumbzten, correct?" A small man with glasses looks up from a clipboard.

"Yeah." I look around. It's a large, white room with a wood floor and high ceiling. The guy with the clipboard is perched on a small wooden stool.

"Alright." He smiles benignly. "I'd just like you to demonstrate some of your dancing ability. I'm going to turn on the CD--this is not The Way You Make Me Feel--and just dance like the music feels, okay?"

"Sure," I reply, a little nonplussed. This is not how my other auditions have gone.

He switches on a tape player and it takes a few seconds for the song to start.

When it does, I stand still for a couple bars, learning the music, getting into the feel. I can feel my bones and muscles loosening up, like all the stress and strain is just melting out. The music bleeds into my arteries: a hard, fast-paced one with strong guitar and a prevalent beat. I can feel my body becoming the music.

And then I dance.

When I dance, I don't plan specific steps, don't attempt to control my limbs. It's as if the song does it, the music does it. And I can't remember it afterwards; I need to videotape myself later to find out exactly what I did.

I'm a model. That's what I do. But what I really feel is that I am a dancer.

And I strut across the room, spin around, open my eyes--and the music ends.

"That was really good!" It's a soft voice, surprised and intrigued, claps echoing in the empty room. I look up.

It's Michael Jackson.

His hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, a few strands falling out over his face, and his eyes are bright and awake. I don't know how he does it; he must have been here since the early morning just like me, probably earlier. Somehow I feel like I'm in a surreal experience, like this isn't really happening, like it's just dreamworld.

He looks over to the guy with the clipboard. "Can we put her down as one of the finalists?" then turns to me.

"Hi, I'm Michael Jackson." He smiles, embarrassed. "Well, you know that."

"I'm Tatiana Thumbzten," I answer. My voice does not shake because I'm not really here, but I can't stop smiling.

"It's nice to meet you." He reaches out and shakes hands with me. His grip is firm but cold. "I thought your dancing was really good. That's exactly what I'm looking for, the strut at the end--right Don?" he looks at the glasses guy who nods. "Have you been dancing long?"

"Yeah--well, I'm a model, but I grew up into ballet. Dancing isn't my profession, but I really like it."

"You're good at it too," he grins.

The glasses guy clears his throat. "We need to move on with the auditions, Michael. There's still a few left and it's getting late."

"Yeah, okay." He looks at me. "See you later."

I feel like I'm glowing. I'm out of my body, and somehow someone else inside of me echoes, "See you later."


	2. No One Told Her Why

I'm in the shower when the phone rings. I step out of the scalding water, wrap a soft white towel around myself, and hurry, dripping, down the hallway to pick up the phone at its last ring. "Hello?" I'm soaking the carpet but you know in my business when they call with an offer you've got to take it.

"Hello. Tatiana Thumbzten? This is Don Wallace, the casting director for the music video The Way You Make Me Feel. You auditioned last month and I'd like to let you know you've been chosen for the part."

I almost drop the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yeah... sorry..." I stutter, almost dropping the towel. "Um, that's great! What should I--"

"You'll need to be over on the set tomorrow at two to discuss the contract, meet the team, and learn more about what you'll be doing. Do you have a pencil and paper to write down the address?"

"Yeah--one sec." I scramble for something to write on--the back of my checkbook--and a pen. "Ready."

He recites the directions and I copy them down in almost illegible handwriting. "We'll expect you there, then. We're all excited to see you, and think this'll make a good production."

"Yeah, I'll be there." I say goodbye and let the phone drop, leaning against the wall, momentarily stunned.

I'm Alice in Wonderland in a bizarre dreamworld. Can't believe I actually got picked. Can't believe I'm actually going to be in a music video that'll be played all over the world. This is my big break. This is it.

And I'm not going to let anything stop me. Not going to lose this chance. I'm going to lose my inhibitions, grit my teeth and give all I have to give. Because I can finally make a name for myself, and I'm not going to let this go.

* * *

"Tatiana, welcome! You're early." It's the guy with the glasses, and he shakes my hand. His palm is moist and sticky, and I let go quickly. "I'm Don Wallace; we spoke on the phone." He stretches his mouth out in a smile. "It'll be about half an hour before the rest of the cast gets here, but the director, Joe Pytka, is here, he's in the back talking to Michael."

At that moment I can hear heated conversation emerging from the doorway from the back room, and Don breaks off. One voice clearly Michael Jackson, and the other probably the director.

"Yes, but I don't want to portray that kind of image!" The famous soft voice is strong with vehemence. "I know everyone does it. But there's nothing wrong with a hug. It's not that I don't want to, but--"

He breaks off as they both move into view and see Don and me. Michael Jackson's curly hair is loose and messily falling around his shoulders, and he's dressed casually in a red shirt and black pants. Joe what-was-his-name looks older but strong, like one of those old guys from the Westerns. He has long, straggly hair, longer than Michael's, and steady black eyes.

"We'll talk about this later," he says in a low voice to Michael, then turns his attention to me. First he meets my eyes, and I can feel my chin lift a little stubbornly. Then his gaze travels downward, examining every part of my body, but not in a perverted way; somehow I don't feel uncomfortable. After a few moments, he releases me with his eyes and steps forward, shaking my hand. "I'm Joe Pytka," he says, smiling easily. "I'll be directing the music video--"

"Short film," Michael interrupts.

"--short film," Mr. Pytka agrees, nodding. "I'm pleased to meet you. We'll--you, me, and Michael--be working together a lot, more than anyone else involved in the mus--short film, so I hope to get to know you well."

He steps back, nodding slowly, then mutters to Michael, "Good choice, Michael. She'll do very well."

Michael Jackson smiles with embarrassment. "Oh, God, does that mean I have to introduce myself now?"

Mr. Pytka lets out a short bark of laughter. "Yes, Michael, it's not that scary."

"Shut up, Joe." He ducks his head, and I think he's blushing.

My hands twist around each other. I'm not a fan of celebrity adulation, but his embarrassment is making me embarrassed as well. "It's okay," I say shortly, "I know who you are. I don't live under a rock." I hate introductions, and my smile is forced. "I'm Tatiana Thumbzten."

Mr. Pytka claps his hands together, breaking the awkwardness. "Well, why don't we go ahead and enter the meeting room while we wait for the rest of the cast and crew to arrive?" He gestures for me to go ahead of him through the doorway he and Michael Jackson came out of, and I walk through it, clutching my jacket around me. It's not cold, I'm just nervous, like I shouldn't be.

The room is large, with a high ceiling, and chairs set up in a circle; there must be close to forty chairs. I'm surprised so many people will be here, and look around at all of them, wondering where to sit.

"Mr. Pytka, why are so many people needed to make a music video?"

He laughs and takes a seat. "Call me Joe. And don't call Michael Mr. Jackson, he hates that." We both look at Michael, who's standing near the door, still looking embarrassed, with his hands clasped behind his back. "Come on, Michael, don't be shy, sit down," he calls, then continues. "You haven't been involved in many music videos, have you? There's many more than forty involved in its production. Once we get into it, you'll see what I mean." He winks, then turns as voices are heard in the outer room.

"Oh, that must be the crew; it's just about time." He checks his watch. "They'll be coming in here as soon as they get their information down with Don. You two better sit down so you don't look like idiots, by the way," he adds.

Michael Jackson sits next to Mr. Pytka, crossing his ankles together and folding his hands together on his knees, looking as awkward sitting down as a professional basketball player in an office chair. I take a seat a few chairs down on the other side, set down my purse, and pull my jacket close around me.

The people slowly filter into the large room, filling the silence with motion and noise. They spend some time greeting each other--most of these must be Michael Jackson's regular team--and then take seats. On my right is seated a tall, bone-thin blonde who looks like she has something disgusting under her nose; on my left a large sweaty biracial man, with a friendly smile as he meets my eyes. The chatter swells and I withdraw into my cold exterior. I let the ocean of the sound sweep over me, like I'm not involved.

Then Mr. Pytka--Joe--raises his voice, and I'm snapped back to the present. "Quiet! Quiet, please!" The people still, the ends of conversations tailing off into whispers, and all attention goes to him--and Michael next to him.

"Well, it's great to have all of you here," he says, looking around the circle, "the new faces, as well as the old ones from previous short films we've done. We've had a great success with the others, and I'm sure this'll do just as well--and be just as fun." He pauses as they applaud, and I bring my hands together a couple times.

"Basically this meeting is just to organize what'll exactly be happening, the tentative schedule for the rehearsals and filming, and just informally meet the people you'll be working with. So I'm not going to sit here preaching to you, but I'd just like to quickly introduce you to a few people you'll be wanting to get to know over the next few weeks.

"First--I'd like you to stand up, please--we have our costume designer, Barbara Slinn." She gets modest applause, as do the next few people, "Don Wallace, the casting director who also manages most of the logistics; Mark Porter, who takes care of the cameras and filming; Susie Reynolds..." I tune out, until a large outburst of cheering and clapping means he introduced Michael Jackson. I look up and suddenly meet his eyes; he glances away quickly like he's been staring at me, and bites his lip. I don't know what to make of that, but now people are standing to see him and are blocking my view.

"Okay, okay," Joe raises his voice higher, "sit down please, settle down. Yes, you'll all be working with Michael over this time, and you'll have plenty of time to see him, don't worry. I'll be selling tickets, though," he jokes, and the atmosphere eases. I can see Michael Jackson staring at his hands now, still biting his lip.

"So now I'd like you all to mingle and meet each other, find out what all of you will be doing, who you'll be working with, alright? The next meeting," he now has to yell since people are standing up and talking excitedly, "will be right here next Friday at 8:00 PM. This is a mandatory meeting, and you'll all have to be here to..." his voice trails off, "of course you'd have to be listening to know about it... oh, what the hell." He gives up and sits back down, amusedly muttering something in Michael's ear, who laughs as well.

I get up, since no one's sitting down anymore, and push my way through the crowd to lean against the wall so I can breathe. I should be talking more with Joe, and whoever wrote the script, find out exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, but I'm sort of out of breath from being thrust into this so quickly. All these people seem used to it. I'm not.

"What are you doing?" It's the tall, obnoxious looking blonde, and she's looking down at me. I wish I had worn my heels.

"Um... standing here?"

She snorts. "I know. What are you doing in the music video?"

_Short film_, I think in my head. "I'm playing the... uh, the girl?"

"The girl? You mean Michael's love interest?"

"Yeah."

She laughs a "Good luck," and walks away on high heels. Strange how someone can make a 'good luck' sound derogatory. I slide down the wall and pull my knees close, hoping to ward off any other interrogators.

"Tatiana?"

"What?" I snap.

Then I bite my tongue when I turn and see it's Michael Jackson, smiling awkwardly at me. "Sorry I startled you," he says apologetically.

"It's okay," I say, though I should be the one apologizing.

He bites his lip again. "Um... Well, we'll be working together a lot, like Joe said, so, yeah. Um, are you excited about playing the part?"

I take a second to respond, then do, facing out into the crowd instead of at him. "I, yeah. It'll be fun. I've never been in anything big. But--don't take this the wrong way, but like, I'm not excited because it's Michael Jackson, you know? I'm not really into all that." I look down, hoping I'm not offending him.

He's silent for a while, and I finally look up. His face has relaxed, and now he's smiling. "That's great. That's what I want. I thought you might not be; that's why I picked you. I think you'll be perfect for the part."

I laugh. "I wish. I'm not that good."

"Yeah? I saw you dance at the audition." A mask seems to have fallen from his face, and now he's talking easily with me, leaning against the wall next to me. "You're an amazing dancer. It's like you really feel the music... not like it's forced. When I see someone dance like that it's like, like a connection." He gives me a quick, anxious glance. "You know what I mean?"

I nod slowly. "I do."

"Michael, when are we leaving?" I know this pouting face; it's La Toya Jackson, hair tousled high. "I've already met everyone I want to. What time is this meeting over?"

He laughs and straightens up. "Soon, La Toya, don't be so impatient."

I want to leave as well; I cover a deep yawn, and Michael notices it. "You're wanting to leave too, right," he says regretfully. "It is late; why don't you just leave? I don't think anyone would notice."

"Why don't you?" I return. "I don't think you're required to care if anyone notices."

"I like her," La Toya laughs. "She's got a point, Michael, what about it?"

"I'd get in trouble," he says, sticking out his bottom lip pitifully. I admire the brother-sister relationship; I wish I had anything near the easy friendliness in my family as these too.

"Hark to your love interest," she tips her head in my direction, and Michael blushes, "you're not required to care. Come on."

He hesitates for a bit, then relaxes. "Fine. You've convinced me." He looks at me. "Do you need a ride?"

"No, my car is parked outside." He looks slightly disappointed, then smiles. "Alright. Let's see if we can sneak out without anyone noticing." He edges along the wall towards the doorway, pulling La Toya by the hand, and I follow them. We make it to the doorway and slip through it.

As I make my way through the bags and purses of the people inside, I, though Michael and La Toya are already outside and can't hear, faintly recognize Joe's voice, "And, once again, Michael Jackson escapes the meeting early. So predictable."

I laugh and step outside into the wintry cold.


	3. You Knock Me Off Of My Feet

It isn't long before Friday comes around, and its the first rehearsal. I have The Way You Make Me Feel playing in the car as I drive there, and my foot is tapping to the music and from nervousness.

Time disappears and I'm already there. I shake my head. I must be more tired than I'd thought.

The set is already built and looks amazing. It seems to be a scruffy, dangerous part of town, with graffiti'd brick buildings and dirty shop windows. I can almost imagine it's that part of town in New York City or Washington D.C. In the background someone's playing The Way You Make Me Feel. It's a bit irritating since I was just listening to it but I suppose it's to get us all in the mood.

"Hi, Tatiana!" says an excited Michael, smiling widely. He's leaning against a brick wall, arms folded, obviously relaxed.

"Hi," I answer, looking around. Joe is talking to some actors angrily, and others are milling around. Were they waiting for me? I bite my lip.

"Joe's just clearing up a small conflict with some guys, and then we'll start. Did you get the packet Joe mailed to you?" He pushes off of the wall and walks up to me. "It had all the information about the script and such... though you don't have to say anything, but you know what I mean. I hope you did, I can't wait to start!"

I look at him. He's practically bouncing on his heels. "Yes, I did. You're in a good mood," I laugh. "Less nervous today?"

He puts his hand on the small of my back and begins to guide me towards Joe, and talks while walking. "I'm just excited. Joe says I always get way to enthusiastic about my short films. It's like going up on concert, sort of, just sends all this adrenaline through me. I love doing movies. Can't wait."

We're at Joe now, and he looks up, saying gruffly, "I'll be right with you, Michael. Hi, Tatiana. Sorry about the delay, but these two S.O.B.s..." He gestures at the actors he's arguing with and gives a wry grin. "We should start in about ten minutes." He glowers at the men. "Or else."

"Okay, Joe," Michael grins. "I'll take Tatiana over to Barbara to get her costume." Joe nods inattentively, already yelling again.

I follow him to a short, smiling blond woman. "This is Barbara," Michael says, smiling. "She's the one who did all of our costumes. She'll be fitting you."

"Actually, I think what I've got will fit her well," she says, looking me up and down. "You're a skinny little thing, aren't you?" She brings out a stretchy sleeveless black dress. "Come on, let's get you in this." She glances at Michael. "Go away, Michael, unless you want to watch."

He blushes and backs away. "Barbara, don't go overboard. She doesn't need to be in full costume or makeup for this; it's just a rehearsal."

"Of course. But she can't be the character if she's not in the skin for it, can she?" She bustles me into what seems to be changing room. "Come on, dear."

I strip and pull on black tights, and then the sleeveless black dress on top. It's quite short; I smile slightly, wondering what Michael's requirements for my costume must have been. The heels are three inch high boots. Barbara messes with my hair a little, then declares me passable.

I emerge to find Michael, Joe, and the rest of the actors waiting, already in costume. Michael's wearing a blue shirt tied over a white undershirt, with black pants, and his hair is in a ponytail. The rest are in somewhat common, dirty clothes.

Joe laughs. "Barbara would force you into that one. You look very sexy, doesn't she, Michael?"

Everyone looks at him and he giggles, embarrassed, looking away from me. "Very. Barbara knows my taste in dresses."

"Okay," Joe says, "let's get this started. We finished going over the first scene while you were getting into your costume, so we'll start right from when you walk down the road."

"Okay."

"You're going just strut down like you're coming back from a party or something. And then Michael's going to go up and stand in your way, but get shy and not do anything, and you'll just walk around him. Then he'll yell, and you'll turn around, and he'll walk around you and check you out, start singing, and you walk away. Got it?"

I nod, though he said that so fast I've forgotten already what I'm supposed to do, but I'll improvise it.

"We're not filming or anything, this is just to get down exactly what we're doing. Just do what you feel is natural. The rest will come."

I nod again, and for some reason look to Michael for encouragement. He grins at me, though his cheeks are still red from the dress thing. I return a forced smile and walk to where I'm supposed to come from.

"Just start whenever you want to. Michael, you know what to do."

"Wait, what? I forget."

"Michael, your the co-director, what do you mean you forget? You're over there, with the guys."

He nods and jogs over to them. Someone turns on a tape of sharp, dancing rhythm. It gets me in the mood, and I'm suddenly confident.

I begin to walk down the pretend street, walking to the beat. I'm not tired, not lonely, I'm coming back from a party, there's some guys flirting with me from the side of the street, and I've got my girls waiting for me over by the convenience store. An entire story for me, just with the sound of the music.

The guys at the side catcall and yell as I pass them. I ignore them. They're the dregs of this city; I'm too good for them. I don't spare them a passing glance. They don't deserve me.

Then this presumptuous, impotent man walks up to me, standing in my way like he owns the world. I look him up and down in a single glance; he's cute, but not my kind of guy. Too flirty, too assuming. He acts like I'm going to fall all over him. Not me. I walk around him like he's a fire hydrant or something that decided to plant itself in the middle of the sidewalk.

He stand there for a second, gathering his courage, pushing his shyness to the bottom of his self.

"_Heyyyy,_" he yells out, breaking the silence, and I freeze, turning around slowly. Who is this man to address me like this?

He slowly walks up to me, around me, extremely slowly, his eyes passing over every inch of his body. He doesn't look like he's acting; he's drinking in the sight of me in a way I hadn't seen shy, soft-voiced Michael Jackson act before. Wonder if there's a red-blooded man in there somewhere that's only exposed in his music and his dancing. He's staring at my ass, and I turn around to face him, slightly uncomfortable.

He raises his eyes to mine, and they're laughing, like he knows what I'm thinking and he's amused by it. Then he burst into acapella, "You knock me off of my feet now, baby!", busts a few moves, and the music starts.

I stalk off defiantly. The nerve of him to stare at my ass and then laugh at me. Actually, I feel a bit gratified, but I don't like to be laughed at.

Michael giggles, then chases after me, grabbing my hand and pulling me to a stop. "That's all for the first part, right, Joe?" Without waiting for an answer, he continues. "That was great, Tatiana, sure you don't have any acting experience?"

"Do you?" I retort sarcastically.

One of the other actors--Dominic, I think is his name--chuckles. "She's got a mouth on her, doesn't she, Mike?"

Joe walks up. "That's good, both of you. Tatiana, I like how you walked off near the end. Kind of leave-me-alone, kind of come-on-Michael, you know? Continue that throughout the whole thing. He'll basically be chasing you throughout the whole city, and you'll be trying to get away."

"Yeah."

"And Michael, that's just what I'm looking for. Really annoying, really attracted to her, but you're acting like she's yours already. Remember, you want to act 'turned on', like you say in the song. Got it?"

Michael keeps his eyes fixedly away from mine as he nods.

"Okay, let's do that again."

* * *

After what seems like twenty "run-throughs", I'm sitting against the fake brick wall, sipping a soda, worn down not by the dancing but by the newness of it all.

"So, what do you think?"

I look up. It's one of the two guys Joe was arguing with. "Hmm?" I say nonchalantly, trying to hint that I don't really want to start up a conversation.

"This is your first video experience, yeah?" He sits next to me. "I gotta say you do a hell of a good job for a newbie. Michael's a lucky guy to get to stare at your ass that long, hmm?"

I shift away and don't reply, extremely uncomfortable.

"Well, if you need any help getting used to the scene, Michael's pretty busy, but I'll be here if you'd like some hints. I can write down my phone number, got a pen?"

"No thanks." I want to just get up and walk away, but no, that'd be _rude_.

"Oh, c'mon girl, I'm asking you out here. You know you want it."

"No she doesn't, Jack, go away." I look up, and Michael looks pissed. "Why can't you stop hitting on any girl on the set? First my sister and now Tatiana. They don't want you, get a hint."

"At least I got the balls to say I want them," Jack sneers. "What, jealous?"

"Yeah, I'm jealous of La Toya," Michael responds coldly. "You know I've just got to say the word and you're fired. I'd advise you to be careful; you're walking a thin line."

Jack puts his hands up. "Okay, okay, Mike." He pulls out a paper, scribbles something down on the back of it, and hands it to me. It's a phone number. "Just in case," he winks, then pulls on a backpack and saunters away.

Michael and I are left in thick silence.

"Well, are we done for today?" I ask, a little awkwardly.

"Yes, I'm sure we are," he said, drawing his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Um..." he looks from me to the piece of paper in my hands. "I wouldn't call Jack if I were you. He's not very... gentlemanlike."

"Yeah, I noticed," I say. "Don't worry, I have high standards." I hand him the paper and walk away.


End file.
